it. To edit a paper well is one thing; to make it pay as a business is another.
The New Yorker had soon become a famous, an admired, and an influential paper.
Subscriptions poured in; the establishment looked prosperous; but it was not. The sorry tale of its career as a business is very fully and forcibly told in the various addresses to, and chats with, Our Patrons, which appear in the volumes of 1837, that year of ruin, and of the years of slow recovery from ruin which followed.
In October, 1837, the editor thus stated his melancholy case:
Ours is a plain story; and it shall be plainly told.
The New Yorker was established with very moderate expectations of pecuniary advantage, but with strong hopes that its location at the Headquarters of intelligence for the continent, and its cheapness, would insure it, if well conducted, such a patronage as would be ultimately adequate, at least, to the bare expenses of its publication.
Starting with scarce a shadow of patronage, it h